[color=9e0b0f][center][h3]- The Ozil -[/h3][/center][/color] [center][img]https://66.media.tumblr.com/9ded82be5029e6a53888fa04d266f247/tumblr_ou0vmrvKIL1qkbpm3o1_1280.jpg[/img][/center] [center][color=9e0b0f][b]Travulous Lost[/b][/color][/center] The room was pulsing with rage. Its dimly lit interior was surrounded on all sides by glass walls which played host to dozens of eyes. The figures outside of the room beat against its thick glass in an unorganized rhythm. But the pulse of their minds was unanimous. The Ozil were not adept psionics. Like most things they were too base, too visceral to have any complex use of it. But they could transfer emotions like voice. In this moment they were not quiet. The audience around the square was howling frantically. Inside the soundproof room only the surging pulse of minds could be felt. It was lust of many sorts. Inside the slick black floor was covered in a slithering pool of blood. A gargantuan Ozil, open wounds accenting every rivet of fur and lard, stood proud with glazed eyes. Below him hovled a creature, perhaps dead except for the occasional rattling breath. The furry mass was unrecognizable. The fight had rendered it little more than greasy, torn flesh. The victor attacked once more, thrashing it with a blood-sodden cuddle. The club articulated with each thud of damp flesh. A howl half-laced with laughter, half-laced with rage echoed against the walls. The Ozil goliath raised the weapon for all of the audience to see. It was an arm, the arm of the Ozil that lay before him congealing in his own fluids and defeat. Though the windows he could see the elation of his kin. He could feel them. Their chorus had grown to a frenzy. The males thrashed against the windows as females proffered their organs to him. Surely their needs would be fulfilled in the celebrations to follow. All of the Primacy’s needs would be met, because he would return to them as the Prime Alpha. Ingar Brazhnik, the richest Ozil of his era, sauntered from the carnage like a king. In this moment, that is what he could claim to be. The presidency of Ozil Thermal was won in this way. The audience around him was the Primacy’s Shareholder Council members. Each fiscal year, after the earnings of all quarters were calculated, a rival to the Prime Alpha position was chosen to challenge him in unarmed combat. The victor took all, often including the opposition’s life. This contestor had been of weaker make, a benevolent choice for third quarter profits. Ingar’s victory seemed assured, but stranger things have happened in this system. Whether by choice or by force, Prime Alpha Ignar had reigned supreme nine years to this day. A door in the room appeared. With one last thrusting fist and show of gnashed teeth to his adoring fans, Ignar slipped into a quiet hall out of view. The dark corridor was lined only by the dimly illuminated busts of Prime Alphas who reigned before him. Their stern vissages stared forward into space. They were a reminder of the soul of his people: hard, humble, and hungry for the past. At times he wondered if they would approve of him. If he would be capable of making Zakarov, Zediah, or Krankinov proud. This hall was lined with men who earned their place in the galaxy. They had torn apart worlds to make a home for his people and fuel the Iron Star. Ingar had done little more than play sides at the bartering table, trading terrawatts for treaties. His bloody paw caressed the half-mutilated face of Valdiketch the Great. “Blood and profit, brother.” Ingar offered through gritted teeth. “I will finish your mission. I will bring the [i]First Ones[/i] back to us. Mine will be a star that shines brighter than all in the galaxy.” With a sudden, furious heave, Ingar tore the bust from its resting. He breached through the heavy sanctum doors and into the vibrant party that awaited. Hundreds stood at their grey cubicles. Papers and notes were strewn out amongst the smattering of office holocomputers. Head down, Ignar strode through the onslaught of praise. Hands reached out to pat him. Still others lurched their giant figures onto desks to get a better view. Yet he marched through the headquarters office without eye contact, bust of his ancient predecessor in hand. Finally he arrived at the front of the room. A table with refreshments was fancifully arranged, at its center was the festering remains of a whole Terran narwhal, undoubtedly bought at gratuitous price from Rolvius. Above the splendor sat an even greater jewel: a window from their station on Travulous Lost looking out onto the great blue mass of a sun. It was beautiful. Ingar could scarcely stop himself from weeping when he looked at her. She was the deliverance to his people, their purpose, and today his prize for victory. But she was a fickle mistress. The sorrow of her drama ran through him as deeply as his lust. The Forge, a dyson array that the [i]First Ones[/i] had left behind was in disrepair. Few spacehabs even worked. Everything had to be done in retrograde, as the technology of that civilization was so far beyond their capacity. Engineers were actually linguists. Architects were archeologists. The path forward for the Ozil laid in the ability to understand the past; and not even their own past. They had been pets of these great creatures, now gone from the galaxy. What they were now and what the Iron Star was now, was an embarrassment. She needed fuel. The current demands were pressing at the needs of their economy. Still more dire, they were pressing at the needs of promised exports. If the investors learned of this, they would be in stock free-fall. Though much of this fuel was intellectual, and thereby far more scarce, mineral resources were poured in from all over the galaxy to help reconstruct the lifeline of their nation. Amassed before the mental haze of the Push, many of the [i]contributor[/i] planets and peoples had become unruly once more. Just last week three million had been slaughtered quelling an uprising on Divarpov IX. Labor was a hard pill to swallow, and the reactors needed more hands to sift, clean, and ship the profits and waste of the Primacy. They were stretching thin. They needed to expand their holds or default on their economic presence in the galaxy. This expansion had been stifled by the Treaty of Detente. And yet, the treaty of Detente had saved them. Perhaps even to some degree Ignar knew this too. It had allowed them to survive in a world of much bigger fish. But to argue its necessity was semantics. Trade deals, the true expansion of the Primacy, would have been impossible without a signature. Embargos hurt harder than the coalition forces that occasionally glassed his mining projects when their ambitions had stepped out of line. Even now, the Primacy was likely to be throttled by another coalition incursion once the next round of Treaty observers was turned over. A cocktail of blackmail and bribery had held off most reports. But it was difficult to hide the expansive pre-construction projects underway in the Ozil sectors. Final assembly of these printed parts would be a trivial step into swelling the naval power of the Primacy exponentially. Now was the time to get rich or get caught. A thin line of blue dust stood on a plate amongst the delicacies. Ingar inhaled it sharply before leaping onto the table. He began to pace atop it as a female nervously offered him up a microphone. Ingar snatched the device, a familiar glaze in his eyes. He paced more as the room grew silent. Stifled coughs intermittently cut the void as the entire room waited. On each face was a mix of fear and exhilaration. “Detente. Cute word. Cute idea... He liked it,” Ingar pointed a trembling finger towards the arena where a huddled mass still laid prostrate. “CUTE, if you are a bitch in heat offering yourselves to the galaxy at large.” Ignar held the bloodied bust of their venerated hero aloft to the still silent crowd. “What would he say? What would he say if he found us with our wrists tied to our ankles? What would he say if he found us in soda commercials rolling down hills of snow, giggling like the galaxy isn’t ours for the taking? [i]Like we aren’t predators…[/i]” Ingar choked the last words as he launched the statue at a nearby soda can perched atop an office cubicle. The two objects dashed together in a shower of brown froth.. The silence was humid. “WE’RE FUCKIN LEAVING!” The crowd erupted in applause. Poorly stacked file drawers were tossed asunder. Bureaucrats hugged each other and still more began to find their way onto disorderly desks. Problematic dances were being performed. The subtle symphony of Song 1, the anthem of the Ozil began to murmur as chests were beaten in unison. “THE SHOW GOES ON!” Ingar ejected again through pulsing neck veins and a slightly bleeding nose. The chorus of Song 1 unified and strengthened. “We’re going to take this GALAXYYY! Get every fucking inspector out!” Ingar was heaving with sweat. He grabbed a spare bottle of Lokoid spirit and began guzzling it like water on a burn. The few races other than Ozil in the room hurriedly left or were wrapped in black plastic bags by unmarked agents. “Supply and demand…” Ingar offered with mock calm. “I’m going to find what the Ashtar left. I’m going to uncover the secrets of the [i]First Ones[/i]. I’m going to walk down to that weak little planet they left behind and take it ALL!” Ingar surged, recollected himself before continuing. “Then when I have the galaxy’s balls in my claw,” he gripped in demonstration, “they are going to come to us. They will turn out their pockets and each one of you,” he pointed to various individuals in the crowd, “ you, my brothers and sisters, are going to be filthy fucking rich.” [color=9e0b0f][center]--------------------------------[/center] [center][b]Beneath Agdemnar[/b][/center][/color] The engine hummed as it sifted and drove through the soft Agdemnar earth. Service personnel clambered through the confines of the drill, lubricants and coolant sprays constantly firing into the dusty machine’s bowels. A nameless mook sat on the edge of this chaos, a small radar perched on spare ration boxes. Hand on chin and eyes heavy, he stared at the small blips of the screen. Outside of the tunnel was a sensory array which would tell the sappers of oncoming threats to their tunnel system. Of yet, nothing but spare debris from the orbital conflicts above had offered any amusement to the post. A half dozen of the mining party had tried to flee once, but he had personally seen three of them shot and assumed the others met a similar fate before reaching the entry of the 80km long tunnel. He pulled up the greater global map array. Lights danced all around the planet. The galaxy was at war on this world, but children slept at night none the wiser. He wondered if they had offspring like him. Small tufts of fur that would never see their father again. When he was abducted for this post, he knew that fate. Overnight he had become a Sales Associate for Blue Milk LLC, the company this entourage was officially attached to. The business was one of many galactic ratholes for money laundering by the Ozil elite. This one had a VPN out of FedNat, but he knew spray painting that onto Ozil gear, tactics, and personnel could only fool the most banal of galactic liberal media. The small freighter this mining company had arrived on was even stolen, at least intellectually. It operated on some off-brand, aftermarket version of Kadath cloaking. Or maybe it was Utopian? He wasn’t sure, the reality was that it probably didn’t even work. The entire planet likely knew they were here; knew that they had landed in a small canyon and had begun drilling headlong under the shield covering Point Jakurna. Suddenly, the soil around them shook fiercely, small scraps of dust and debris fell through the gaps in the tunnel’s propping carapace. Frantic eyes of maintenance personnel began to peer at him. Some reached for their side-arms (useless) still others began to slowly position themselves towards the tunnel egress (more useless). The Ozil grabbed his empty box of freeze-dried potatoes and peered at the sensor screen. Nothing was showing but a small loading bar in the upper corner. He pushed open the empty container which contained not starchy foodstuffs, but a detonator. He gripped the rusty device and unclipped the safety. The loading dial in the upper corner spun onward in torment. Perhaps it was a surprise assault. Maybe someone with stealth technology that actually worked. With his dying breath he would click that damn button. Neutron bombs lined the canyon entrance, nearly half the freighter’s weight of them. If anyone were to assault their position it would be scorched earth and salted fields of the worst variety. It may keep the enemy out, but it would also lock him and his crew in. They would have no other choice than to drill onward. They had to get under that shield or this tunnel would be their grave. The loading icon vanished. Small red dialogue appeared on the screen in [i]First One[/i] cryllic, which he somewhat knew. [indent][color=ed1c24]ORBITAL STRIKE ENEMY ON ENEMY CASUALTY GENOME: HUMAN VARIANT THREAT TO FRIENDLY: 9% PROBABILITY PROCEED [/color][/indent] “Proceed!” The Ozil cried out in parrot. Small rivets of joy cracked through his voice. The workers said nothing, but he could feel their relief. They continued on as they were bidden. The hiss of coolant tore onward into the deep. More words appeared on the screen. These, however, appeared in basic Ozil. He assumed they were from the orbital fleet. They had been told a small flotilla was amassing near the system’s sun, soaking up her energy in wait to strike once the shield was down. If he did everything right, maybe he would see his seven dozen children once more. [indent][color=ed1c24]“Orbital strike from Asrian Ascendancy on target above tunnel structure. Do not detonate. You are meters from Ashtar shield array. Prepare for mining craft to proceed under shield threshold. Vector will adjust to 30 degree angle for crust breech.” [/color][/indent] He looked out over his laboring kin and knew they felt his euphoria. They would be rich. They would be famous. They would survive. [i]Thuddddchhhhhh[/i] Smoke billowed into the tunnel. The mining craft came to a halt. [color=9e0b0f][center]--------------------------------[/center] [center][b]In orbit of Agdemnar [/b][/center][/color] [center][img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/5d/7f/92/5d7f92cc26c9085317b4c8b766843181.jpg[/img] Discount offer: 20% Use code: STEALTH CRUISER “Attention [i]Hermione [/i]crew: Your vessel is unstable and will destruct. Immediate necessary repairs are purchasable at bargain price, through PsyPay or vetted financial conduit. Order now while offers and supplies last. We look forward to future dealings of mutual benefit. -Blue Milk, LLC. Routing PIN: 0938402384”[/center] The message was sent to the FedNat hospital ship from a small contingent of clearly Ozil naval vessels in close orbit of the system’s sun. The routing PIN was traceable to an account seemingly located on the Terran Cayman Islands. Local officials, however, would find this not to be the case. [@Taeryn] [color=9e0b0f][center]--------------------------------[/center] [center][b]Correspondence[/b][/center][/color] [hider=From Harmonic Conflux]Esteemed Alphas of the Shareholder Council, We are assured that this missive finds you ever strong and steadfast. It remains our highest pleasure to attest the exemplary efficiency of Ozil Thermal at all levels we have had the fortune of observing, and it is our fervent desire that we may continue to do so in the continuation of our transactions. It cannot have escaped the notice of your organisation that many of the galaxy's potencies are on the verge of rearmament, as evidenced in their formal rejection of the Treaty of Madrigasa. While less stable and confident authorities may see this as a risk, we trust that you will convene with the judgment of the Joint Commissions of the Harmonic Conflux that this state of affairs offers new opportunities to those ready to exploit them. As so many polities refuse to hold themselves accountable to the Treaty's terms, they cannot expect recourse against any measures of defense and retaliation adopted vis-a-vis their actions. On behalf of the Harmonic Conflux, we thus extend to your organisation an offer of partnership and cooperation in ensuring that neither sovereign body be adversely affected by hostile interference. Our organs of Trade and Distribution are ready to offer partners affiliated with Ozil Thermal preferential pricing on exported stock, to be determined by the parties involved. In addition, you have our assurance that any similarly beneficent policies undertaken on Ozil Thermal's side will contribute to bolstering the Harmonic Conflux's ability in defending our common interests by any means necessary. Should you wish to discuss the particulars of such potential defensive actions, we would be eager to assemble a representative committee for a direct conference. Regards, The Foreign Connections Administration, Commission for Beneficent Symbiosis [/hider] [hider=Reply to Harmonic Conflux]Attn: Commission for Beneficent Symbiosis, Your missive finds us well on this eve of Prime Alpha Ingar’s reappropriation as Chief Executive Officer and firm confidant in the fiscal opportunities levied by the Harmonic Conflux of the Innumerate Suns. Your words strike true to his heart, and the heart of the shareholders in his steadfast. We see this time as an undeniable investment opportunity with unlimited potential benefit and very little risk of fiscal loss. At this very moment, Ozil Thermal is decreasing its monetary parity to allow further foreign investment at bargain prices. We trust the Conflux will strike hard and fast at this once in a lifetime opportunity to link interests with the Iron Star as she sees her rise in both power and share value. As an act of good faith, for your fiscal and political investment we are already adjusting for a limited time 0.4% price reduction per exawatt of goods labor. A true steal, and lasting mark of friendship between our polities. Furthermore, we must openly appreciate the friability of public image in these uncertain times. Though we fully appreciate the cultural framework of the Conflux labor markets, it must be noted that potential investors have made themselves socially and financially malaligned with such business practices. As such, we must request that large scale dealings be handled in a publically amiable way, both clandestine and through proxy. We furthermore offer our services as an intermediary company for goods and services of the Conflux hitherto banned from lucrative markets at a bargain commission. Your goods and services are always of esteemable quality, our own Prime Alpha once offering in private conversation, “I love their damn shoes, I don’t care what sweat shop they’re made in.” Surely these joyous comments will be on the lips of our many well-served customers. The doors and share holds of Ozil Thermal are always open to you, and we warmly invite you to link appendages with us in the forthcoming market boon. V/R, Olga Ironthigh Undersecretary of Marketing Ozil Thermal Primacy [/hider] Attached was an advertisement for a shill polymer business dealing mainly in humanoid boot markets. The advert was complete with exact location of the foundry and an encrypted discount offer code. [@Oraculum]